


Mouse

by Anorkie



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Human, Drabble Collection, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Original Character(s), Slurs, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-11-08 15:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20838026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anorkie/pseuds/Anorkie
Summary: A choppy collection of glimpses in other realities. Brief what-could-have-beens.





	1. Intro

You wonder when you became so miserable. What pivotal moment transformed you into that damp, slimy sensation that has made a permanent residence underneath your skin? You search, but there is no pivotal moment. No one event, nor an accumulation of events, tossed you into the state of your existence. Simply, you were always like this.

  
  



	2. Apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This stuff is old. Some of it hasn't been touched in well over a year. I wrote a lot of fan fiction, and a lot of that fan fiction went unpublished due to my ability to start and not finish. I have several documents filled with thousands of words but missing a beginning, a middle, or an end. It's all just sitting in my documents, clogging space, going unread. I've thought about sharing my unfinished writing many times but cringed at the thought of strangers seeing my jumbled process. Now, I don't care so much. I'd rather share what I have, even if it's choppy, even if it's nonsensical, because I haven't been able to seriously write much of anything in about a year. Because I go back to some of this stuff, and it's not all that bad. I like to see I once wrote content I liked, and I want to share that. Maybe you'll like it too.
> 
> (Cohesion is scarce. Things are rushed at points. Nothing is finished. If you want complete, fulfilling stories, these might not be for you. If you like incomplete puzzles, you'll have a field day.)

1–

Keith has learned, with stuttering certainty, a dangerous world prepares one for dangerous people. His childhood was exceptionally kind in the unkindness of ways, beginning for a second time as a man he learns to call _ father _ wrangles him from the body of another man—his actual father. He shrieks in the company of these friendly strangers, promising the same thing through Keith's orphaned wails: _ we will take care of you. _

To their credit, Keith survives his most fragile years under the supervision of the man he struggles to acknowledge as kin. His new father is married to a genius; a woman moreso married to the knowledge in the textbooks she tasks Keith with sorting through and reciting for memorization. Not many people know how to write, but she can, so Keith can too, given time. She spoon-feeds him intellect until he is full of it, but he feels empty of something else. He learns what the missing piece is when his adoptive parents’ son holds his hand after a nightmare and carefully finger-combs the neglected knots of his wild hair. 

Lotor; his _ brother. _Keith never calls him that, because he has already realized what he feels for Lotor is not appropriate among family members. 

Lotor had taken after his mother in looks and personality and, of the latter, Keith was relieved. Zarkon was not a cruel man, not exceptionally, but it was smart to stay on his good side by voicing as little of one's opposing opinion as possible. His wife, Honerva, had cracked her jaw against the hardwood floors more than once for giving too much lip. It seemed she still had much to learn.

“This is our safe place,” Lotor reiterates into their shared teenage years, referring to the abandoned shack remolded to a child’s taste, altered only slightly as the two of them outgrow things. The wooden boards, skewed with age and weather, bloating and shrinking with the rain, allow cuts of sunlight to sneak into their secret world. Dust particles dance in the light, and Keith is always reminded of faeries. Delighted by their phantom presence, he lets himself imagine among the sloppy drawings plastered on the walls.

Lotor kisses him, the way adults kiss, for the first time in the safety of their childhood fort. The structure doesn't breathe, and it is a blazing summer day. They strip to their underwear and keep practicing; two sweltering bodies colliding stubbornly for attention, friction, and acceptance. They cross the border of curious prodding and groping to fucking when Keith turns fifteen and Lotor, shortly after, eighteen. Blissfully unaware at the time, but in blaring retrospect, Keith learns these are the honeymoon years: fucking intersected with the responsibilities of working, insected with drinking and more fucking. He is in love. He must be.

Somewhere along the way, Lotor loses the sensibilities of his mother. The deconstruction is gradual, only evident long enough to disregard: tantrums, which Keith soothes; passive-aggression, which Keith soothes; violence, which Keith soothes...until he cannot ignore it anymore.

Lotor slaps Keith while they are on a run, in the presence of the other scouters, over something so frustratingly trivial it is unmemorable. Mortified, Keith hits back, and it is the first he has ever hit Lotor. The shock of his own actions paralyze him, so he stands awkwardly with his assaulting arm frozen in place, blinking back tears until they unbiddlingly erupt.

“No more.” His fingers flinch.

People talk as they tend to do. They remark about Zarkon's sons scuffling in a bloody fight that did not actually occur. Lotor apologizes by giving Keith space, then an orgasm, then a kiss. He says he will do better, and Keith believes him.

A man breaches the walls of the encampment for the first time in its history. He is accompanied by at least twenty men, which in no way threaten the numbers they stack themselves against. They last maybe fifteen minutes, and it is arguably the most exhilarating fifteen minutes of Keith's life. 

Until he sees the kid.

“Please.” The man’s name is Ryan. He holds a nameless child close to his chest in a final act of protection.

“Is he the bargaining chip for your life?” Lotor holds the gun like it is a toy, not a machine crafted for death. He laughs, “That's dirty.”

“Lotor.” Keith reaches for his shoulder. Lotor shrugs him off and takes a step forward. 

“No. Spare just him.” 

The entire camp crowds around this spectacle. Lotor as the centerpiece, always the centerpiece, shoves the unforgiving metal against the man's sticky, trembling forehead.

“Wish granted,” he says simply. The gun goes off. Once. Twice. Keith stops counting; he assumes the firing only stops because there are no more bullets to fire.

The child, covered in the steaming brains of his father, wails. It starts to rain. The entire camp cheers in triumph, and Keith feels himself wanting to disappear into the background.

The child’s tiny chest heaves uncontrollably as the hysteria of the crowd soaks the bloodied land more than the rain does. Everything turns sloshy, dull, and pink. Lotor takes the boy's wiggling, reluctant body into his arms, and Keith sees something familiar—a vivid memory, routinely revisited in nightmares. A boy, a body, and a man. An unwilling exchange.

Keith retreats to the fort. He sleeps under the dripping roof and doesn't dream. 

Lotor is there when he wakes, child tucked against his chest and dozing. He rubs circles into the boy's back; Keith feels his skin crawl. 

“I'm surprised he can sleep,” Keith croaks.

“I gave him something to help him along.” Lotor shrugs softly. “Nothing abrasive.”

Keith sits up and scoots closer to Lotor. He tilts his head to get a clearer view of the boy's face, which scrunches in discomfort briefly before returning to a calmer state. His eyeballs move erratically under thin veils of flesh.

“We're keeping him?” —Keith gestures— “Like, _ we _ are keeping him?” 

Lotor cups the base of the child's skull with his palm, fingering through the tight curls to graze the scalp with his fingernails. He squeezes slightly. “Seems appropriate.”

Keith releases a harsh laugh before he can catch it. “_No. _He'll have nightmares for the rest of his life.”

“They'll make him stronger. What I would have given to gain the stunning visual of our father's face exploding.”

Keith feels his body propelling itself forward, closing the distance between himself and the other man. He is unsure what inspires the surge of energy that suddenly possesses him. Lotor holds his burning gaze and plants a slow kiss on the boy's forehead.

  
2–

“Babe,” Keith says. 

Their relationship is complex in the way it necessitated the utterance of _ brother _to explain and simultaneously avoid the circumstances of their bloodless bond. They fucked in the comfort of their childhood fort—the first time, and every time since then—until Keith's sensibilities matured further than most of the compound men double his age. Keith and Lotor's affections, albeit strangely conceived, were not inherently wrong; however, they did cloak simple truths Keith is now aware of. Being: masculinity is a construct formulated by violent men more in love with their suffering than anything else, and his lover, raised by these same men, is a lunatic. 

Keith cannot stand or readjust his arms, but he says _ babe _ instead of _ brother _because there is more leverage in romance once men like Lotor have hit a certain age. Lover seems unsuitable—forced, even—since Lotor has failed to meet the expectations of a romantic partner. Sibling will never be appropriate again, so what is he? 

Keith resists kicking when Lotor snatches his leg. 

“Be still,” Lotor instructs with that voice he reserves for strict doctor-patient interactions.

Keith is until he sees the dripping tip of a needle scraping his right thigh. He jerks away but feels dread smack his face instead of the reassuring surface of the hardwood floor. Opportunity never surfaces; Lotor has the chair backed up into a corner before Keith can sway his weight any which way, and the rope threatens to eat his wrists whole.

Keith feels himself laugh, and the needle slides in without further complaint besides small, residual groans between legs. 

“Numbing agent,” Lotor supplements when Keith does not ask.

“Why?” he does ask.

Lotor's eyes drift like he is uninterested in the question.“Tell me when you can't feel anything.” He pinches Keith's thigh for good measure, and Keith sucks on a gasp. 

A curious shifting comes from behind the locked door, but the image of a saviour does not appear in Keith's mind. Instead, he imagines a boy—barely a teenager—wearing nothing but moth-eaten sweatpants, sweat-drenched from the inability to sleep after being torn from it by a violent shriek. He imagines the boy pressing his ear to the thick wood in an effort to collect context. He habitually strains for evidence that could shed light on the man he wants to consider a father. Keith is not that man; he is merely an accessory with no clear label. No one is obligated to save him.

“Rain,” Lotor calls, and there is a barely audible, stuttering gasp Keith almost mistakes as his own. Lotor slightly turns his head in the direction of the incriminating noise. A lantern's light turns his blanched hair a burning orange as it seeps through the gaps. His harsh features fade with a shadow, but his voice sparks dangerously as he says, “Go to bed.”

There is a deliberate pause. The floorboards creak in a receding manner. 

Keith feels his thighs being pinched again—less, this time. 

“Sweetheart,” he tries. Lotor loosely massages the frenzied muscles in Keith's legs, which brings more tension than it does relief. He continues to grope, contemplative. His swirling eyes are eyes reserved for science experiments.

Another pinch.

“I know you're tired. We should sleep,” is Keith's desperate offer. The chair creaks with his trembling body. It drinks from his sweating back. 

His upper body simultaneously frosts over, melts, and blazes when his right calf is bent at an absurdly awkward angle without any sensation attached. A disbelieving noise crawls out of his throat and splatters into his lap: bile. 

“That really hurts,” he whines from his reeking mouth. It's a lie, but Lotor immediately allows Keith's leg to resume its natural posture.

“We'll give it another minute.” 

It could be casual. The way Lotor says it, it could be an average, spousal punishment akin to the silent treatment. Keith struggles against the restraints and releases a horrible sound to illustrate to himself, at the very least, that there is nothing normal about this. He imagines Rain bug-eyed with an ear plastered to the wall, jolting at that sound in particular. 

Lotor yanks Keith's leg to reclaim the whopping two inches Keith managed to scoot away. He looks offended. “I don't want to hurt you,” he says, which tells Keith that he is, indeed, offended.

“I know that, but you _ are_,” Keith shrieks indignantly. His face swells an unsightly red as his temples throb and his eyes water. Prepared to burst, he holds in a scream; on cue, Lotor's expression deadens before his hands make quick work of dislocating Keith's knee and snapping _ something. _

There is no pain, but the sight transforms that precious scream into a splintered sob that cracks the tension similarly. His apprehension moves to a place of acceptance even as his heart contracts painfully in his chest—quicker to identify the anomaly than his stuttering brain. The restraints are ruthless, yet he feels himself gravitate towards Lotor as much as they will allow. He observes the process this time—the popping and snapping of a distant part of himself. His shoulders bounce weakly as he giggles.

“Baby,” Keith muses. A delayed protest. He moans in the back of his throat and doesn't know what to believe.

A glass is being pressed to his lips. The little water he does swallow dilutes the tacky taste of bile coating his tongue. His eyes swim around the hands prodding his clammy face. He can feel every bead of sweat oozing out of his pores and vibrating on top of his skin. He could vomit his guts this time.

Keith collapses uselessly into Lotor's arms once the restraints are removed. He is malleable--maybe even liquid--in Lotor's grasp and does not fuss when he is placed onto a mattress. He is shushed, regardless. His hair is tousled and pulled away from his drenched forehead. He feels pressure. A kiss.

“I'll take care of everything.” A promise.

Keith nods into the crook of Lotor's neck, dizzy. He cannot see his legs, but he can imagine them in a hundred shades of purple for a very, very long time. His brain is beginning to catch up.


	3. Execution

There is a blade teasing his throat when they are finally upon him. Naturally, it is his own.

He never expected this to not happen; denial or a bloated overestimation of his abilities could never flatter the hardships he has come to know. It was only a matter of time, and he anticipated it like every routine failure that delivered him to this moment. By no accounts is he disappointed. Disappointment is too easy to succumb to when the odds were always stacked against him. Much like the tightening of his throat and sweat of his brow, burrowing in the calamity of his overall situation is hysterically typical. Rather, he is enlightened because he has the power to transform his final moments from desperation into poetry. Death is inevitable, and inevitable things are poetic in nature: an upturned head awaiting the reddening stroke of a blade and the drooping shoulders that head rests upon, the tyrannical ideals a ruler covets for want of endless influence, and the marginalized wiggling in their chains for centuries before there is any given. Even then, it is pointless. It is poetry, nonetheless. All of it.

Thus, he finds meaning in locking eyes with the Galra he assumes is leading the operation and feels his lips twitch upwards. His death surely means the death of this man and the other soldiers his father sent. He has felt powerful commanding crowds and peoples of conquered planets to roll over, sit, and stay, but this is something else entirely. 

His life was not his own, but his death can be. And there is power in that. He wants these men drenched in his blood when they return to his father. He wants their dragging feet to print a carpet leading directly to the throne their emperor sits upon. He wants their message to be utter silence as the fear of their failure guts them quicker than any sword on the execution grounds.

He wants absolution and freedom and a subtle _fuck you always_ _and forever. _

Why did he prolong this?

Talons in his hair _ pull _ but the shock spreads to more than just his scalp; consequently, he convulses at the feeling of absolute degradation to his person as another hand snatches his wrist. It happens too fast yet not fast enough. He thinks it’s hilarious, and he thinks it’s a subconscious level of premeditated self-destruction. To revel in the moment is to hesitate. To be shocked is to have had faith in something once, maybe multiple times.

He knows his mistakes. Why does he keep making them? 

“Restrain him,” someone says, and he stiffens, body beginning to accept what his spirit has resisted since this manhunt began. 

There is nothing to say, so he does not make a sound beyond the slight grunt escaping him as a pair of cuffs marry his wrists. His sword leaves his hand for what he assumes is the last time and a kind of grief overcomes him. Will it be deemed worthless and discarded for its reputation as the signature weapon of the wayward prince? Will it memorize the fingerprints of another if it is mercifully reforged? Besides the Galran issued clothes on his back, his sword is the only thing truly belonging to him. 

He doesn’t want to think about how his father gave him the sword. He doesn’t want to recall the unadulterated astonishment that resurrected his boyish dreams of having a genuine relationship with his only parent. 

The commander retrieves the weapon, only finding minute interest in its craftsmanship and surprising nimble weight before handing it off to a lesser soldier. Lotor resists scrunching his nose at the exchange.

“Prince Lotor, I am Commander Vesna. I will be escorting you home.”

Out of context, there is nothing foreboding about Commander Vesna’s words which could be interpreted as a polite request. Maybe, in another reality, a commander with a different name presents him with a similar prospect inducing significantly less dread. In this instance, he is safe; his father does not desire his dripping head. Here, with his arms bound behind his back, each syllable drops like a guillotine. His time is short.

“Resist and I will be forced to neutralize you,” Commander Vesa says. He folds his arms behind his back as one with influence ought to do. “Assure your complete cooperation, and I will assure your utmost comfort on our return to the Empire.”

The commander could be lying, Lotor briefly considers, but he has no reason to. To harm the prince unprompted would be pointless when a swift punishment awaits him in the talons of his father. To treat him as anything more than a criminal would be just as absurd. “Comfort” is a funny word to say to a man before delivering him to his demise, and Lotor suspects this puppet cares very little of self-preservation among others. Enemies of the Empire, especially. What he wants is a promotion and bragging rights for bagging the Emperor’s traitorous son without a fight. The little brat succumbed to fear and sought the duller side of the blade, in the end. 

Lotor does not want to be that story.

His eyes drift momentarily before reacquainting themselves with the heady gaze of the Galran officer. The edges of exhaustion clinging to his voice are barely noticeable as he says, with an air of authority, “You need only command and I am yours, Commander Vesna.”

Lotor’s greatest strength and weakness lies in his ability to appear strong at his weakest. As a consequence, tailoring himself pathetic is challenging when his body naturally smoothes out its own kinks. His shoulders square on impulse and his eyes, a most-telling instrument, reveal very little. They are self-defensive maneuvers he has attempted to unlearn in situations with less finality than this one. All unsuccessful efforts.

_ Flatter them with your weakness. _

The commander's brow makes a slight jump towards his hairline. “A dramatic change for one prepared to slice his own throat.”

“Would you prefer my fight, Commander?” His voice grovels on an intentional rasp. 

Commander Vesna takes a step forward and Lotor makes himself flinch at the metallic tap of his shoe. The lackeys surrounding them shift to accommodate their commanding officer and provide the best view of the prince on his knees. It might be appropriate to bow his head at this point to make a show of shame or submission, but he cranes his neck to watch Commander Vesna come closer.

“No, I would not,” the commander says after a deliberate pause. “Emperor Zarkon does not want you unnecessarily damaged. However, if you give me cause…”

“You have my word,” Lotor says, unflinching. 

Something predetermined washes over Commander Vesna’s features and he turns his attention to his subordinates. 

“Gag him,” he says.

Dozens of hands are on Lotor and he finds the precaution to be an unnecessary response to his stiff body. He opens his mouth for a set of prodding fingers and makes a pitiful attempt to not cough against the harsh rub of cloth. Already, he feels saliva pooling as his tongue is pressed down by the placement of a spherical object. His vision blacks and blanches when a Galran soldier yanks back a fistful of his hair. By the time his eyesight settles, Commander Vesna has lowered to his level.

“It is not to prevent you from speaking but that is an added benefit, I suppose.” 

Lotor’s scalp continues its silent scream when the hand tugs harder. His eyes flutter and water as the stinging becomes the only thing he can concentrate on for a searing moment. 

Commander Vesna snatches Lotor’s jaw and squeezes until his nails scratch just hard enough to sting. “I will not allow you to take your own life. You belong to the Empire once more and you will die as Emperor Zarkon sees fit.” 

The commander gives Lotor a second taunting squeeze before gesturing to his men. The hand in Lotor's hair releases its monstrous grasp and momentarily settles on his bicep. He groans unwittingly against the gag as the Galran soldiers grope at him in a combined effort to lift him. Although he is fully capable of standing on his own, he allows them to do as they please. He stumbles once and is promptly reprimanded for it with a hard shove to his back. As best as he can, he matches the pace being set around him as he is paraded into a ship. His time is short.

There is a peculiar presence peeping over his right shoulder; stronger than the others, this one leaves less space and practically breathes animosity down his neck. His skull can sense the heat of the soldier's hand and tingles in anticipation of more violent hair-pulling. “Altean,” the man hisses, and Lotor supposes if he were to act on a cue this would be as good as any.

He slows his pace enough for the soldier to bump into him. The disturbance is minor, but it interrupts the group’s footing long enough for Lotor to reach for the man through his bodysuit and _ squeeze. _What comes next is an expectant yelp and shove that separates him from the others by several potentially life-saving feet. He is still recovering from the blow but uses the lingering momentum to swing his cuffed wrists over his head. A series of sickening pops mark the climax and denouement of the act that nearly frees him. He tries the cuffs once, twice before halving them with strength alone. By then, the soldiers have realized their error and are nearly upon him. 

He is smaller than any one of them but consequently quicker on his feet. Options renewed, he loosens the gag and lets it collapse on its own as he scrambles for the soldier clutching his sword. 

—

"When my men searched his cruiser, they uncovered this.” 

The nuances of the emperor's face are obstructed by the mask he wears, but Lotor knows his expression must be terrifying.

—

“Break his arms as well, but not beyond reasonable repair.”

—

Zarkon had only mentioned her a handful of times. Lotor could never decipher the meaning behind his father's seemingly nonchalant attitude whenever the conversation veered towards the topic of Mother. Had his father properly moved on and relinquished feelings of nostalgia in the process? How could he remain so unaffected by her absence when Lotor’s childhood had been defined by it? 

_ Do you not care? _is a question Lotor always thought better not to ask but it paraded his mind still. “Honerva” became a name seldom spoken in the presence of the emperor, and Lotor reluctantly maintained that to avoid added disapproval from the only parent whose opinion mattered. 

He could admire his mother and her achievements in private. Even though the tangible evidence of her existence was fragmented and scattered, he could be allowed this.

—

“I never had a son.” 

—

“Cut out that smart tongue of yours, did they?”

_ That _is an unforgettable voice.

“Pompous,” Lotor wants to say.

—

The kind touch of hands on either side of his jaw subdues the throbbing of his skull. He could actually sob with the relief it brings.

“I'll come back for you.” 

Lotor thinks he and the half-breed paladin could have been friends under different circumstances.

—

“Your mother, Honerva, could never have saved you from the man your father has become.”


	4. 1983

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These pieces are in chronological order. It’s the early 80’s.

1–

There is a man standing on the other side of the road. He has both hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket and a cigarette that dangles between his lips. He reveals one hand and you realize it is tattooed - but roughed by _ something else _\- as he snatches the shrinking cigarette between two burnt fingers. Smoke languidly rolls from the small gape of his mouth, pressed thin for this big-screen effect that flashes “cool” over his head like a neon pink sign. His eyes flicker in the sun and seem to swallow its beams. His skin, only a shade or two darker than yours, appears unrealistically matte as the heat coupled with the dark clothes has no effect on it. You force yourself to remember these details because you realize, with a superficial interest that can only be the result of your straining sexuality, the man across the street really is cool. You also realize you have stared for too long when the second bell rings, signaling the lingering students to get a move on. When you look back he is walking in the opposite direction you're headed, and you have to wonder why he waited at the bus stop to leave without a ride.

Your father controls your life from the moment you wake up in the morning, every morning. The fact you are the last person inside the bloated belly of the school is unacceptable, he would say, because you were dropped off with more than enough time to spare. You just spent that time gawking at a handsome stranger instead of hauling your ass inside, retrieving your books, and avoiding absolutely no one's attempt to talk to you in the bustling morning, so now you're late.

You are not popular, but you are not a no-name, either. You have found an undisturbed balance by never taking sides with or favors for any particular group, yet every clique has labeled you as a “cool, reliable” person to drop their unsolicited issues onto. If the conversation focuses entirely on the problem-haver, you can have some very long conversations highlighting everything from the abuses of childhood to jerky ex-boyfriends. Preppy girls will take you into the girls’ bathroom with their manicured hands, and they will scrub their makeup clean as they say, “I have no one else I can talk to this about.” 

They thank you for “being such a good friend”.

You have no real friends but, at the very least, you can sit at any table in the cafeteria and no one will give you flak for it. It's actually an impressive achievement. 

A man employed by none other than your father picks you up after school the same way you're dropped off. It's always a different guy by the afternoon, but they are all even-tempered to a fault. Sometimes, you run, maybe for close to a mile, cutting through neighborhoods, because you know no man working for your father will raise his voice to you even after his patience has run thin. Other times, you will walk the entire way back home with a car trailing you, side-by-side, and this is frustratingly allowed because you're still being chaperoned. You think if you were a girl a kind stranger would rescue you from what appears to be a common display of flirtation turned harassment. You think you should start wearing a skirt to school.

Your daily goal is to slip into the house and into your room undetected to avoid a conversation keeping you by the door, so close to an exit you cannot utilize. Some days, like today, your attempt is completely thwarted by your father's foreboding presence; despite that, a sliver of hope still shines, and you wonder if he'll only engage you with a disinterested wave of his hand. Tragically, he appears very interested, if only for a moment. You have never been lucky. 

You greet him, but it feels like a knee-jerk reaction to stave off a dialogue with him from actually occurring. You feel his fingers tease your jawline, and he gently tilts your head to plant a kiss on your forehead. 

“I hate this,” he says, and you know he's talking about your hair, which is the result of harsh chemicals and stolen money. You keep doing it too, because you know it's less of a money issue and more of a small act of rebellion you can get away with.

There's no way to reassure him about this, so you nod in acknowledgement to make his distaste known, and he releases you only after cradling the base of your skull with a firm grip. You dart upstairs to strip out of your stiff uniform for more comfortable clothes, do your homework, and fall asleep to your record player spinning Prince. 

2–

The next time you see him, it is a Tuesday. 

He stands where he stood, wearing the same jacket, puffing on another dwindling cigarette. The difference is this: he locks eyes with you and, after a long drag of the cigarette, _ winks _. Your chest constricts as your feet pull you in the direction of the school. You keep your eyes trained on the ground but are hyper aware of your posture, speed, and the eyes undoubtedly following you every step of the way. Against your better judgement, you peek over your shoulder before you step inside and, upon seeing the bus stop vacant, feel something like disappointment filling in what the rush of anxiety hollowed out.

Even if you did have friends to giggle and gossip to, you don't think you would mention this encounter to them. You notice your sudden tendency to write mysterious strangers into your stories for your creative writing class. Your teacher notices the shift as well and returns your A+ paper with a smile.

“The way you began it, I thought it would be a horror story. But a love story, huh?”

Graduation is sneaking up on you, and college feels like a bad dream breaching the walls of reality. Your grades are above average but, even if they weren't, you know your father could pay your way into any school you wanted because, in the end, it's really just another business. At first, he told you to apply anywhere and everywhere and there it was: freedom. 

  
2.5–

Parties at your house are not uncommon; in fact, your childhood was shaped by the people who took brief custody of you throughout the durations of them, careful your short, wobbly legs didn't crack your skull on jewel encrusted glass tables. To say you haven't lived in a mansion your entire life would discredit your father's influence but, as irony would have it, a smaller home might have felt less suffocating than this maze of vacant rooms, eerie in their silence. Even though the parties your father throws are partly for business, they do something to fill in the gaps two people could never do alone.

3–

“You work for my dad?” You know he doesn't.

“Yeah,” he says and unlocks the passenger door. This goes back to every lesson you learned in preschool. As a child, your father taught you this, only echoing what your teachers made you and your peers repeat on a daily basis. Your common sense shrieks because it is obvious, so obvious: don't talk to strangers. See also: don't get into a car with them. Don't trust people so easily because your loneliness blinds your logic. 

You get inside.

You've lived in this town your whole life yet, after a few odd turns, you have no idea where you are.

“When can you take it off?”

“Excuse me?”

He loosely gestures to your cast. 

“A few more weeks.”

“I suppose you didn't get into a fight. You don't look like the fighting type.”

Pause.

“What's your name?”

You tell him.

“What's with the accent?”

“What's with the scary tattoos?”

“You think they're scary.” He seems amused.

  
4–

“Why do I spoil you so much?” 

“I dunno, why do you?” Lotor asks, playing with the rhetoric. He stretches his legs and wrinkles the fabric of Sendak's shirt with his toes, mutely requesting its removal. Sendak lightly smacks his thigh, so he decides to give him a chance to remove the garment by tucking in his legs momentarily. The shirt comes off and Lotor giggles.

“Oh, come on.” Sendak teases, feigning annoyance. He slides his hands underneath of Lotor and squeezes his ass before slipping his pants and underwear off with ease. “Don't make me say it. You already know.”

“Why do you?” Lotor tries again, reaching for the hem of Sendak's pants and finding the zipper. Sendak kicks off his jeans the moment they're unfastened.

“Because you're already a brat.” Sendak pours lubricant onto his fingers. “And if I didn't spoil you, you'd throw a fit.”

Lotor leans into the mattress and laughs against the back of his hand, nearly satisfied with the answer. The corners of his eyes crinkle with the emotion, and his irises are blown, completely transfixed on Sendak's fingers. Sendak plunges in two digits to start, expecting the resistance and gasp accompanying it. Getting to the knuckles takes more pressure, which he applies without much regard to Lotor's scrunching face. He continues the action until Lotor starts whining.

“Oh, baby boy,” Sendak coos. He presses the thumb of his other hand against Lotor's lower lip, rubbing firmly, beckoning him to take it into his mouth. Lotor gets the hint quickly and does just that, holding Sendak in a half-lidded gaze.

Sendak adds a third finger without preamble and feels the boy stiffen underneath of him. His teeth lightly scrape Sendak's thumb. He takes back his sopping finger to hold Lotor's face in his hand.

“You want me inside of you, don't you?” Lotor swallows and rolls his hips slightly. “I need you to relax, sweetheart. Just relax.” 

Lotor nods into Sendak's hand, cracking a smile when Sendak playfully presses their noses together. 

  
5–

“You ever steal your daddy's money?” The light flashes red. Sendak turns his head, eyeing Lotor from where his ankles cross on the dash to where a hand presses to his mouth, hiding something. Lotor's laugh fades when Sendak's gaze doesn't let up. 

“No,” the boy says, maintaining some humor, but his voice is suspiciously sharp. “Light's green.” He nods his head forward to convince the lie into a truth, but his companion doesn't check.

Sendak reaches out to pet Lotor's hair. He caresses a blanched lock between his fingers and says, “What about this?”

“Are you serious?” Lotor bats Sendak's hand away but lacks genuine force. “Green,” he tries again, this time with a flick of his wrist. Sendak's head is stagnant. 

“There's no way you did this on your own.” His hand settles at the base of the boy's skull, gingerly massaging the area and earning a groan that is reluctant to be pleased.

“Can I drive if you're not going to?” 

It's a joke, but he sounds uncharacteristically anxious. He winces and sinks into his seat a little and, as if on cue, a car horn angrily blares in their direction. He groans again as Sendak snatches his hand back to reclaim its place on the wheel. The light is green.

Lotor tucks his legs and leans forward to fiddle with the radio. He turns the dial aimlessly, without giving any one station a chance to play before skipping to the next. He clears his throat. “Why does it matter anyway?” Quickly, he adds, “I'm not stealing money for you.”

Sendak almost slams down on the breaks on impulse, but miraculously rejects the urge and only taps the pedal to accommodate a merging car. “That's interesting,” he says, unable to gauge the tone of his own voice.

He feels Lotor staring at him, and it actually pisses him off for a moment, how this kid is smarter than he looks and is always, always dissecting the shifts in mood and atmosphere for something dangerous. He always seems to find something, too.

“That's not what I was getting at, sweetheart.” He can hear Lotor shift in his seat. He wants to be persuaded otherwise, that much Sendak can tell. 

“He watches his money like a hawk,” Lotor mumbles. He folds his arms over his chest and holds them close.

“I wouldn't ask that of you,” Sendak reassures. He grips the steering wheel until his joints scream.

“Then why did you bring it up?” Lotor snaps with a concerning, releasing click of his seatbelt. He barely gets a foot outside before Sendak reaches to smack his hand over Lotor's and slam the door shut. He gets pushed away by a pair of frustrated hands but manages to safely pull to the side of the road before the kid tries to pull another stunt.

He reaches over again, this time to press the lock of the passenger door. He talks with his hands without meaning to, making a wide gesture with his arm, and something about it makes the kid's face flinch. “Listen,” —he's half yelling— “you're here by choice, alright?”

Lotor scrunches his nose. “Is that why you locked the door?”

“You're upset,” Sendak reasons. “You'll run off and hurt yourself.”

“Hurt myself?” Lotor laughs, exasperated. “What, am I suicidal now?” 

“You just tried jumping out of my goddamn car.” Sendak laughs, too. He runs a frantic hand through his hair and laughs again. “You can't do that shit, Lo.”

“I'm an adult. I can do whatever I want.” He tries popping up the lock but is quickly stopped by Sendak's warding hand. His hand is snatched up to be kissed, and he snatches it back like the lips stung him.

“You turned eighteen a month ago,” Sendak sighs. “You aren't a fully functioning adult all of a sudden.” 

“Then stop fucking me,” Lotor growls. 

“Babe.” 

He's being boxed in. His face feels like it's going to burst, so he's only partially surprised by the hot tears erupting from his eyes. He releases a wet sob and weakly pushes Sendak, unable to get him to budge.

“Sweetheart, you're getting upset over nothing.”

6–

Sendak chews on a dying cigarette, now barely a nub, as he shrugs off his parka. Lotor easily slips into the fur-lined garment, but the gesture goes over his head. With the exception of the bike, nice things like this cannot be found Sendak's shoebox of a home. The jacket does not suit Sendak's typical, brazen attire—flecked with holes and burns. Lotor wonders if it's new, intentional. 

“Ungrateful,” Sendak says with a smile. He pulls the oversized hood over Lotor's head.

They hold hands as they walk down a sidewalk illuminated by buzzing storefronts and slow-moving traffic. Lotor watches the hairs on Sendak's arms rise, along with small bumps, but the older man insists he isn't cold.

“Here.” He motions at a metal staircase before lighting another cigarette. There is an ice cream shop, but the stairs lead to a separate entity; a small apartment with two visible, partially open windows. Lights on. Voices.

Lotor snags Sendak's shirt before obeying the width of the rusted railings and squeezing into a space that is bigger than it feels. Sendak only halts for a moment to take a drag; in the next, he is shouting something in Spanish and banging on a door with the palm of his hand. He is welcomed by scattered, excited voices—juggling English, Spanish, and maybe another language—and heavy pats to his laughing shoulders. Lotor has not been to many parties, but he understands his role in their presence and attaches himself to the doorframe. 

Sendak does not have to move; each person comes to him with a fast-moving stories and cans of beer. Already engaged in his company, they settle on chairs and pillows, shuffling cards and lighting cigarettes, and Lotor is certain he could have passed as furniture for the duration of their stay if not for the weather. He shivers, and someone tells him to shut the door.

Sendak turns his head, prompting everyone else to pay attention to whatever Sendak is paying attention to. “Babe,” he half-laughs, like Lotor is being silly, and waves him over with an unopened beer in-hand.

Lotor averts his eyes and sheds the jacket, becoming smaller. Pitifully, he is reminded of the large gatherings his father would have and Lotor, a child among smoking, drinking men in expensive suits, sought comfort by clinging to the sleeve of Zarkon’ blazer, even though he always anticipated to be swatted away. Now, like then, he snatches the arm of a man he trusts and feels himself trying to camouflage against someone so unlike himself.

“Lotor...” He feels his face getting warm. There are maybe only five, six people, but they're all staring.

“Your girl?” The man closest to them asks.

Sendak thoughtfully pauses before saying, “Yeah.”

Reality twitches. Lotor replays what he knows to be true: undressing for Sendak, touching himself for Sendak. He does it a lot—switching his gender for convenience's sake. He has allowed his boyfriend to do it too, but only when it benefits them both, and only in the company of strangers. These people know Sendak's name.

“Lotor,” someone repeats.

And now his.

“She's shy,” Sendak says fondly. It's the truth, but Lotor takes that statement as an opportunity to speak as little as possible, if at all. He takes the previously offered beer and makes himself comfortable in Sendak's lap. Slowly, the men continue their conversations where they left off, omitting Lotor as they did before. A card game starts, taking half the crowd with it into the kitchen.

Lotor has taken two hours to finish two cans of beer while Sendak nurses a fifth. Appropriately, he gets up to use the bathroom. It's only steps away, but Lotor almost follows him in. The two men Sendak was entertaining mumble things amongst themselves in their native tongue before flicking their drunken eyes on the mystery in the room.

“How did you meet Sendak?” One asks, obviously looking for a conversation.

“Uh.” Lotor squeezes the can until it pops once. There is an uncomfortable pause.

“It's just a question.” The man laughs, awkward and somehow sounding offended. His friend rolls his eyes. 

“She doesn't wanna talk to you. Sendak said.”

7–

“Are you sleeping with anyone else?”

Lotor blows through the straw with a hard laugh.

“It's not funny, Lo.” Sendak folds his arms and holds them close to his chest. He's serious.

Lotor pauses and takes a small sip of water. “It's not.”

“People are getting sick from that virus. Real fucking sick.”

“Queers,” Lotor corrects, reading the furrow of Sendak's brow. 

“A bunch of idiots are dying because they're sleeping around, so I gotta ask, just to be sure.”

“I'm not sleeping with someone else.” He maintains eye contact until that last syllable leaves his lips. Trying to stave off suspicion, he sloppily adds, “I'm clean.”

He really has no way of knowing. His father's flings are random and not always invited over. While his father seems in good health, he has no way of knowing the same for his partners. Lotor might as well have slept with them all.

“Hey, look at me.” Sendak captures Lotor's attention with that sweet voice he pulls. “Say it again.”

“I'm not cheating on you.” 

“That's not what I asked.”

“It kind of was,” Lotor snorts. “We can use condoms if you're so worried about it.”

The tone shifts. “Why the fuck would we start using condoms if you're not fucking someone else?”

Tears prick his eyes. He swallows, trying to hold everything within himself. Sendak quickly notices and scoffs loud enough for them both to get caught in it.

“You can't go crying whenever someone says something you don't like.”

“Are you my fucking dad now?” He hisses.

“No.” Sendak narrows his eyes. “But if I find out something, and you don't tell me first, we're done.”

Lotor massages his eyelids with his thumb and forefinger until finally stuffing his face into his palm. He gasps hard trying to smother a cry.

8–

Seven orgasms. Between the two of them, nine. Sendak started ebbing away after his respective fourth, but Lotor kissed, sucked, and clawed until Sendak demanded _ enough _in a hoarse voice similar to Lotor's own in times of ravaged barriers. His lips have gone numb from kissing and suckling, but he persists once more to snatch a bit of skin between his teeth. As soon as he applies pressure, a hand clashes with his thigh, then his ass, intending to harm. He rolls off Sendak, soundless. The man is asleep in seconds. His face is tight.

Lotor misjudges the strength of his legs and collapses to the hardwood floor. He catches himself on his elbows and army crawls to his backpack, disregarding the noise he's making, disregarding the pain he's in. He rummages through the very few items contained inside, snatching a pair of clean underwear first, and then going for the handcuffs.

He plays everything out of his head, convincing himself he's already done the hardest part, and wills his body to cooperate.

The floor creaks beneath him, disclosing his route. His curling toes deliver him to the furthest side of the bed where the frame marries the wall. The bedframe has etched dark marks into the wall in the wake of vigorous fucking. Four months of it. Lotor is convinced the wall was cleaner before he ever set foot in this room. He would find the revelation humorous if not for the cold metal slipping in damp hands. 

He locks the first cuff around a post, testing the wood's durability when pulled. With enough willpower and adrenaline, he is convinced Sendak could break the post to free himself. Whether that feat would take minutes or hours, he is unsure. Either way, he needs to be out of the apartment before then.

Afraid he might stumble, he gets on his knees to handle the second cuff. His heart does not beat until the metal _ click, click, clicks _around Sendak's wrist as tight as it will go. 

His shirt is still on the bed. He goes for that. His pants are lost in the sheets, inside-out and too difficult for his stuttering hands to deal with. He can do without them. It's Boston; he can get away with an ambiguously stained shirt and a pair of briefs.

“Lo?”

He smacks his palm on the doorframe, stopping himself from falling, from leaving. His head is already ducked outside of the room. Maybe he made it up.

Metal rattles. Experimentally, at first. Then, it's just angry.

“_Lotor._”

Why does he feel like his father caught him doing an awful, awful thing?

His mouth flutters, unable to come up with explanations or excuses—much less, words. He leans against the doorframe and clutches it with both hands. 

“Lotor,” Sendak says again. His voice simmers, even-tempered and negotiable. Guilt swells in the boy's chest, manifesting as ragged coughing that soon evens itself out to something more manageable: tears. His crying is obvious before he ever says he is sorry.

“Lotor,” Sendak coos. “Come here, baby. I'm not mad.”

Lotor lightly knocks his head against the doorframe. He knows his options are severely limited when it comes to the topic of Sendak. He knows he only has one option.

“I don't—” his voice cracks. He swallows. “I don't have the key for it, Sendak.”

The room goes so quiet he can hear his spit sloshing in his mouth. Sendak cackles to himself.

“You are so fucking stupid.” Lotor steals a glance of Sendak sitting on the bed, one hand clasped around his bound wrist, muscles twitching in preparation. His facial expression cracks like a bolt of lightning, and he pulls the shrieking frame with three quick, violent thrusts that nearly make it jump. Lotor yelps and falls into the hallway. The scratching of the floor becomes the only audible thing. Sendak makes it all the way to door.

He fits; the frame doesn't. 

“Fucking _ come here_,” he roars, swatting his free hand at a staggering Lotor.

“I'm sorry,” Lotor gasps, unsure what exactly he is sorry for. “I'm sorry, _ I'm sorry._”

“Fuck you!”

Something snaps, and with it, Sendak's jaw. 

Lotor swallows the guilt and kicks again. It starts to feel good on the fourth kick. Sendak recoils, cradling his throbbing jaw, and Lotor is glad for it; he might not have stopped otherwise.

“Yeah, _ fuck me_, Sendak. That's all you would ever fucking do,” he hisses.

Without a hand holding it in place, Sendak's mouth hangs open like a doll's. It wells with blood, only held back by a crooked set of teeth. He tilts his head, absolving the barrier, and lets the blood ooze in thin, hair-like lines. He releases a shuddering breath, which reminds Lotor he is human, and this is still happening.

“Fuck,” is Sendak's garbled whine. He winces while holding back a cough. “_ Fuck_, Lotor.” He has never heard his voice so vulnerable.

“I need to leave. I'll call for help, but I have to go.” He rubs his face free of tears only for them to be instantly replenished. He gasps hard and says, “I love you. I really, really do.”

Sendak's bug-eyed stare does not change that, and maybe Lotor should hate himself for it. 

He turns the the kitchen upside-down for anything useful. He forgot his backpack in the room, so he makes a knapsack out of a throw blanket and collects a few things. Sendak's flopping on the floor reminds him he needs to be faster. The last thing he touches is Sendak's wallet. He takes everything.

“What'd ya doin’?” Sendak says through his bleeding mouth.

Lotor sniffles. “Relax.”

  
9–

Zarkon clings to him like an extra layer of skin; only, this layer is unnecessary, unwanted, and festering so profusely it penetrates bone-deep. He is the personification of an ancient disease with a lost name, so Lotor calls him “father” formally and alternates between “dad” and “papa” informally.

“Daddy” is something else entirely; he may as well be speaking in tongues. 

Lotor returned to him twenty pounds lighter, carrying an equally heavy backpack stuffed with six months worth of junk, collected from the street and occasionally lifted from careless people who did not keep a better eye on their things. He wordlessly emptied the contents in front of his father after stepping into the house with aching feet, suffering callouses where the soles tore. A hairbrush tumbled here, a fork flung there, and Zarkon observed the toppling mound with horror as it spread onto the pristine floor, oozing like a fresh crime scene. His wordlessness felt like rage, and the hug was so unexpected it dumbed Lotor for days. 

His silence was accepted in the guise of sleep. Zarkon was present for all of it, hovering and pacing and clearing his throat to battle the tension Lotor brought home with him. He felt hands on his back and in his hair, massaging and combing knots. He was kissed on the forehead and felt touched by something supernatural, because the sensation paralyzed him, because he feared something less chaste. He dreamed of locking eyes with something akin to Medusa, but his body and mind finally hit a breaking point. His father followed him to the bathroom, to the kitchen, and back to his room. 

“Where did you go?” Zarkon begged.

Lotor never answers that question. It was once impossible to dodge any of his father's questions, but now he is allowed to pick and choose. The price of privilege was picking through trash for a half-eaten anything or fussing with a stranger's zipper to get something better. Although he is no longer pressed verbally, the compromise lies in his father's constant presence--dotting, invading. A single shot of whiskey makes Zarkon emotional enough to squeeze into bed with Lotor and cuddle him like a matted stuffed animal. He apologizes until he chokes on his speech with a sob.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he mumbles against Lotor's quivering lips. 

Lotor is kissed and kissed, and he kisses back. It is instinct. He gropes for the hardness plastering itself to Zarkon's thigh and squeezes and strokes. Instinct. Calloused fingers playfully tug the coarse hair leading to his groin and pluck the band of his underwear. Something does not compute; he surges. He shrieks and kicks until Zarkon is crushing him against the mattress, hands secured on either side of his twitching face. 

“Dad,” he breathes shallowly. He wiggles uselessly. “Dad.” He will never penetrate that word and its meaning through Zarkon's skull.  



	5. Paternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place in the same universe as chapter 4. Some context: Shiro’s dad is white trash, and they live together in a very small conservative town. Everyone has a bad dad.

1964–

He hears the unmistakable thunder of chopping wood as it courses through the air, and he hears it through the still standing trees as they hollow and die, damned to the slow sickness of the fungi polluting the woods. It is not good wood to burn, but it is wood nonetheless, and the town will soon be frozen over; he thinks this must be his father's thought process.

He counts the beats of the halving wood, prolonging his journey by taking a single step to the sound of every other chop. His bike accompanies him like a faithful companion, side by side and matching his pace as they tiptoe down the dirt road. From here, he can see the house peeking through the trees and the silhouette of a man with an axe. The way he moves causes a familiar dread to swell in the boy's chest. He could turn around. It's a thought he has entertained more than once: jumping on his bike and going until his legs turn into noodles and he collapses somewhere public enough for someone to want to save him. That someone feeds him food more substantial than skinny rabbits and the occasional feral cat, and they help him with his nail-biting English homework. He gets gentle kisses to his forehead before bed. His savior is patient with him, like his mother once was. 

He steps into the driveway, and the fantasy dies when his presence is acknowledged by a pair of cloudy eyes. His father lowers the axe, spits out a cigarette and reaches for another from the pack stowed in his back pocket. He fusses with a stuttering lighter before going, “What took you so long?” 

“Mr. Fischer talked to me after school,” he lies, eyeing the discarded cigarette in the grass, stubbornly maintaining its orange glow. He massages the rubber coating on the bicycle’s handlebars. 

“The fuck you do, boy?” The new cigarette blazes to life under a calloused hand. One puff later and the man snaps his fingers to command attention. “Shane!”

Shiro winces at the name. “We...talked about my grades. He thinks I should be in the accelerated class next year for chemistry.” 

“Oh?” A spool of smoke unravels between his crooked teeth and dulls his features. For a blissful moment, he could be anyone else but Joseph Adler. “You smart or something?” The smoke clears.

“Not really…” Shiro says quietly, hoping it's the right answer. 

His father tosses the axe across the yard, and Shiro furrows his eyebrows in a mixture of confusion and apprehension that lingers in his body language when he is motioned to retrieve it. He unceremoniously drops his bike, springs over the neatly stacked piles of firewood, and snatches the axe before his father can take another drag. He holds it delicately, presenting it like an offering he is unsure of the significance of. 

“C’mere, Shane,” Joseph says as Shiro is already closing the distance between them. He bends his knees to level himself with his son and says between a bobbing, ember flickering cigarette, “You ain't smart.” 

Shiro does not wrestle with his father as the axe is pried out of his hands. He gives it up willingly, like most things, and expectantly tenses moments before he is shoved to the ground—and stays.

“I don't care if Mr. Whoever The Fuck wants to talk to you,” Joseph exclaims with an exaggerated gesture of his arm. “You go to school. You come back. I don't care if it's Nixon or the goddamn pope. You don't talk to no one,” he belts to the wavering trees and the stupid animals unaware of their affliction, their last words. With a powerful thrust, Joseph buries the axe into the chopping block with a boom that must echo all the way back to the school. Shiro closes his eyes when it happens and breathes hard through his nose, trying not to gasp so hard he chokes. His heart shudders, and he feels like those rabbits his dad likes roasting so much, the way their toothy mouths hang open in shock. They never stand a chance.

His father is knelt in front of him when he opens his eyes. He extends an open hand, like he wants Shiro to take it. 

“Daddy,” he gasps, because he's desperate, and nothing he says or does will ever be right.

Joseph snatches Shiro’s wrist and yanks it so hard something momentarily pops out of place. He sucks on the cigarette one more time before squeezing it between his thumb and forefinger. Shiro shrieks long before the molten tip makes gooey contact with his melting skin and turns it hard around the edges. His tears almost feel hotter.

“Tell me how good it feels,” his father demands, pressing his sweaty forehead to Shiro’s.

Shiro only speaks in wet screams until the flame extinguishes inside of him. He attempts to reclaim his convulsing arm but is yanked closer to his father's sweltering body.

“Tell me how good it feels, baby boy,” is the whisper to his ear. Shiro nods, numb and afraid.

“G—good,” he crackles. “Fe—feels g—good.” 

Joseph clutches Shiro’s smoking arm, palm tightly pressed to the freshly opened flesh, and all Shiro can manage to do is release a defeated whimper.

  
  


1971–

Unbeknownst to his father, the work makes him stronger.

As a child, chopping wood was a daunting task that meant calluses, splinters, and pulled muscles; now, having withstood the treatment for years, his body is unbothered by the repetition. He chucks the logs into a creaking wheelbarrow and hauls it closer to the house, where he can unload the wood into stacks that accommodate the height of his father. This is a weekly chore that can easily devour the better half of the day, and Shiro enjoys that it does. Joseph does not bother him when he is outside cutting the grass or setting traps in the woods. The more manual labor Shiro completes means less for Joseph, and while his father is by no means lazy, he does prefer to tend to work inside the house as the weather gets colder.

Shiro checks the traps before the sunlight stops sparkling through the trees. A tangled rabbit shivers in the snare snatching its foot and wildly scrapes dirt in its attempt to flee. Shiro slits its throat without much thought.

He strips the rabbit to cook and gives Joseph the best parts. They eat their measly meal side by side on the couch with the T.V. crackling in the foreground. 

“Poor fucking rabbit,” Joseph grumbles. Unbothered by the comment, Shiro picks the leftover meat from under his fingernails with his front teeth. His father snorts. “You ain't as good a cook as your momma. Thought all you orientals was good for it.”

He says this as he finishes every bite of his food—fried broccoli, carrots, and rabbit and all.

Shiro stacks their plates and feels his father's eyes on him as he goes into the kitchen to clean. His immediate reaction is to tense when he hears shuffling behind him, but the opening of the refrigerator, quickly followed by the cracking of a beer calm him enough to finish the dishes.

Joseph bumps his shoulder before he can retreat to his bedroom for the night. Shiro keeps walking but only manages a few more steps before he hears an indignant, “Hey!”

He looks over his shoulder.

“Don't you be ignoring me now, boy.”

He gets himself into trouble when he opens his mouth, so he typically keeps it closed, but today feels different in the way his arms still pleasantly sting from their workout.

“Stop knocking into me,” he grunts.

He knows he won't get away with it, but that's kind of the point.

On cue, Joseph snatches his son's arm with his other fist drawn back, prepared to reteach the same tireless lesson that has left bruises and promises more. He holds his white-knuckled weapon between Shiro's eyes.

“You getting funny on me?”

Convinced it will not be the worst pain he has experienced, Shiro says, “Yeah, I'm a fucking comedian.”

His nose bursts blood underneath his father's fist. He wanes, overcome by the stuffy sensation of drowning until his senses return to him redder. He locks eyes with the pair in front of him, evaluating the danger, and decides to push Joseph into the closest wall.


	6. Cancer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place in the same universe as the previous two chapters.

“Cancer.” 

A waitress pauses to refill their coffees, politely disregarding their conversation as she tops off one cup. The other remains untouched and chilled by the occasional blast of cool air each customer brings in with them. The men at the table are dressed appropriately, prepared for the fast-approaching winter Boston is sure to bring, but have shed their hats and gloves in favor of the warmth engulfing the building’s innards like a tragically penetrable cocoon. The heating system overpowers the grainy television and the gentle chatter of the other customers, but it is not overbearing, simply a contender against the chilly howls that inevitably slip in. 

A grandfather clock stands proudly by the entrance, skirting the checkout counter and a display of freshly baked cakes, and welcomes each new face with its quaint chirps. If its time is correct, which it probably is, it is 8:47 A.M. Thirty-three minutes.

His father called him early this morning for the fourth morning in a row to _suggest _they grab breakfast somewhere, sometime this week. It's been a while since they actually sat down together and talked, he said. They should catch up. Actually, _reconnect _is the word he used. Reconnect suggests there was a connection in the first place and, given the context, stands as something salvageable. His father sounded hopeful over the phone, but he pushed him off with believable enough excuses until the week was nearly up and the third call came at the break of dawn. 

I'm getting older, his father had said. Some despicable thing lingering inside of him stirred at that. The Despicable Thing yearns for a type of paternal affection that is an impossible dream now, so it stopped playing dead just to rear its hideous head. 

_ You remember me, _ it said. _ Remember, _it taunted.

Someone says his name.

He isn't ready.

He has spent nearly a decade feverishly evading this man like a plague, like the smallest hint of exposure would lead to a sluggish, excruciating demise. He stopped visiting, stopped calling, and stopped dwelling on the past because there was nothing salvageable there—nothing. Yet, he agreed to this meeting in a split-second decision and only honored it because his father invited him to the most modest diner in town to order one cup of—now cold—coffee. He wasn't hopeful about it, but something had surely changed.

“Lotor.” His voice remains calm, but he has never been a patient man.

_ He is waiting for a response, _ the Thing says. _ Be concerned, _ it says. _ Are you? _

Lotor swaps their coffees at the expense of having his hand smacked against the table and trapped under his father’s. There isn't very much weight being applied but the message is decipherable. He is reminded of another time when he woke up in a hospital bed after getting into a car accident that was entirely his fault. His father smacked him across the face just in time to silence a nurse’s reiteration of how to manage the new arm cast. It was the first time he was ever struck like that, and he heard the unspoken words in the vibrations of the blow. Disappointment is what it could have been perceived as. Concern, even. That is not the right word for it, then or now.

The chime of the front door introduces another wave of cold air and he finds it easier to blame the sudden tremors of his body on that. A different waitress passes by and she must make eye contact with his father because his hardened grip and expression melt in the next instant. Lotor has to wonder why the precaution, especially where it is least needed. The hand overlapping his is now a gentle gesture that invokes a sense of privacy. His father leans in slightly.

“Talk to me.” Unless he is directly stating otherwise, everything he says sounds like a demand. It is a consequence of his work and the life he's lived, yet Lotor feels provoked as always, prepared to be reprimanded for something he hasn't even done yet.

“I'm still trying to...process this,” is his attempt at stalling. He swallowed this seed of information without chewing and now feels a queasiness in the pit of his stomach. His insides shift to accommodate this new thing making a home inside of him. It disrupts the hard-fought for balance. It disrupts everything.

His father squeezes his hand, and it feels like reassurance. He is either convinced of his son's sincerity or unfazed by the lack thereof. The contact is confusing because, for a traitorous moment, Lotor's body feels almost okay with what his mind knows to be dangerous. 

“I have about a year,” the older man supplements. The words feel like weights, but Lotor doesn't know if they are burdensome things being lifted or applied. He just nods. 

Maybe his dad is dissatisfied with the conversation, maybe that's why he says it, but without much preamble, he says, “You are my only child.” It is easily translatable; it is gasoline to a reluctant flame.

The Despicable Thing sighs longingly and Lotor retracts his hand like he was threatened its removal with a dull, rusted blade. “I know that!” he barks, overpowering everything for a moment, so intimidated by a simple fact and all it implies. He releases a feverish breath he didn't realize he was holding between teeth he didn't realize he was clenching. His father calmly folds his hands on top of the table and evens his gaze, arrow-like. A few people eye them, alarmed by the sudden outburst, and Lotor resists the childish instinct to sink into his seat. 

He holds his tongue for a moment more to stave off embarrassing himself further. Controlling his temper is something that has become easier with age, but it seems his father has a way of undoing everything he's worked to restrain. “I know that,” he tries again, much quieter.

“Will you continue to ignore me, then?”

Lotor can't help the bitter laugh bubbling in his throat. “You brought me here to make me feel guilty so I'd...what? Take care of you?” He’s talking with his hands, and he knows he's only doing it because he's in his father’s presence. He presses his palms flat against the table even though the gesture has already been noticed.

“I want to have a relationship with you again.”

The seed in his belly expands and rapidly splinters off into a terrifying thing. Its pointy edges skewer his organs and drink from the leaking orifices. He could scream.

Instead, he feels shame bursting beneath his skin and covers his reddening face. “Christ, don't say it like that.”

It says, _ Remember._ It says, _ You miss him. I know you do. _

You do. 

You are seventeen and jealous when your father brings home a man somewhere between his age and yours. It is a furious jealousy that cannot be remedied by screaming into pillows or throwing inanimate objects. You are a brat and you are spoiled in the broadest sense, so you play the part: you throw a fit. While your father is having his fun, you raid his office with a knife. You gut folders filled with valuable documents and books, rare, limited edition books, into confetti. You carve angry nothings into the fine wood desk and leather chair and feel no remorse for your actions. You are justified. You are trying to prove something.

_ You are replaceable. You are replaceable. You are replaceable. _

You stick the knife into the desk and sit in the oozing chair.

He slaps a five and some spare change onto the table and waits for the predetermined thing to happen.


End file.
